Page 320 of Face Off

“It could be, Ry. Fuck!”

I let him keep the glasses on.

The building’s underground garage is quiet when we arrive. Briggs reaches for his luggage, but I take the suitcase before he can touch it.

“I have functional arms,” he tells me.

“Congratulations.”

“I can carry my own shit.”

“I know.” I say gentler that I would normally. “I’m carrying your shit. I’m worried about your sight.”

He scoffs but accepts me lie and lets me take the luggage.

The elevator doors open, and I roll the suitcase inside. Briggs follows with his duffel and leans against the mirrored wall while we rise toward our floor.

When the doors open, he looks down the hallway toward his apartment.

His feet stop.

Nothing visible waits outside his door. No boxes, security officers, or evidence that Lyric’s belongings were removed while we were gone. The hallway looks exactly as it did before the wedding.

Briggs stares at his door as though something behind it might still reach him.

“You’re staying at my place,” I say.

His attention moves toward me. “I live six doors down.”

“Not tonight.”

“Ry.”

“My guest bed is uncomfortable, I snore, and you’ll probably wake up with back pain. Consider it punishment for insulting my cooking.”

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Good. I’m not qualified. I plan to have us both drunk within the hour.”

He looks toward his apartment again.

I don’t ask him to choose. I roll his suitcase toward mine, and after several seconds, his footsteps follow.

My apartment still smells faintly of mezcal when I unlock the door. The glass I left on the coffee table sits beside the open book, and the blanket I dragged over myself sometime before passing out is half on the floor.

Briggs takes in the evidence without commenting.

I carry his suitcase to the guest room while he lowers himself onto a stool at the kitchen island. When I return, his sunglasses sit beside his elbow. The skin around his eye has darkened into deep purple and red, with swelling that reaches toward his temple.

Anger moves through me again, cold enough to control.

I take a pot from beneath the stove and fill it with water.

“What are you making?” Briggs asks.

“Food.”

“That doesn’t answer anything.”